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I don’t know about you, but discovering an overbearingly large piece of rubbery matter that CANNOT be chewed in a bite of food is about enough to send me over the edge.

What’s worse is when this unfortunate incident happens at a fancy dinner with people whom you are still in the trying to impress stage.

You know just when it happens too.

First comes denial where you allow your tongue to gingerly investigate the gnarly goober in your mouth pleading with it to just be your imagination and really be a piece of meat or at best something edible.

I love it, too, when someone at the table decides to address you as you are having this battle of wills with your esophagus and gag reflex.

Next, comes this panic because you know you have to get it out–get it out or let your table neighbor watch as your body does this inexplicable heave as you attempt to swallow what your body will NOT ALLOW YOU TO DO. No amount of water is going to get this minion down.

Pair this with an accidental swallow out of your neighbors drink and you’ve got friends of friends wondering why in the world they are friends with you.

“What’s the matter with that woman?”

How does one handle a situation like this?

I find the easiest option is just to take it out of my mouth and put it under some salad on my plate. (Not exactly what Martha Stewart recommends but I think at this point she’s certainly seen worse–so…)

This, unfortunately, comes with its own set of obstacles because I always inevitably end up finding my way back to it again (as if it’s destiny) and sign right back up to enjoy a second round of “gristle hockey” when this clever little vomit inducer grabs a ride on the next forkful of food. (Maybe hiding it under lettuce isn’t such a good idea after all.)

What the hell?

All I can think at that moment is Are you freaking kidding me?

The process must now start all over again.

Although, NOW I will be much wiser–I will put it in my napkin (cloth or not–at this point I don’t care–I truly have nothing to lose) and I will get rid of it once and for all.

Wow. Who knew a simple dinner out could be riddled with such challenges.

Each evening it happens. We go through this anticipated, indispensable, domestic ritual that leads us to something that we have titled–dinner.

One comes home from work, methodically goes to the refrigerator and retrieves multiple items (that make no sense together), sets them atop the counter, and starts this flurry of chopping and opening and closing of doors and cabinets, complete with sound effects of sizzles and pops and smells that trigger memories from childhood. It’s this symphony of food prep that unfolds into this glorious meal from products that one purchased and stuck in their fridge.

I don’t get it.

It’s sooooooo ridiculously time-consuming. It takes what seems like an eternity to fix this masterpiece, twenty minutes to round everybody up, at least another ten to set the table, another five to shout threats throughout the house to those that have chosen to push the limits of the chef and his utter need for seating promptness, and 6 and a half minutes flat to ask everyone how their day was (because that’s proper) while frantically shoveling down the food.

Sometimes, I have to wonder if family members have uncovered this magical secret on their plate saying (If you eat the fastest while acting interested in everyone’s day, and then get your plate in the dishwasher first I will give you one miiiiiiillllllllion dollars)

Finally, upon completion comes–the best part–you get to spend four times the amount of time it took for the preparer to prepare the food to get your kitchen back the way it was (like nothing ever happened). Thank you very much you über chef Obie Wan Kenobi.

I just don’t understand the freaking point. I would be just as happy eating a half-frozen tube of cookie dough while hovered over the kitchen sink. The way I see it, you are eating eggs (healthy) and saving the environment at the same time (no dishes to wash or dispose of). And certainly less time-consuming. Hello!!

My kids certainly know better than to ask me what’s for dinner. They know that question comes with a default answer of “Ask your father.” BUT, if they asked me what shelf the marshmallows are on, the odds are very good that they will get the answer they are looking for.

What’s even more frustrating is that my husband is the Yoda of cooking.

He can take two grapes, a piece of lunchmeat, and a molded piece of cheese and cook us a dinner that tastes like it was just flown in from France. What the hell? Wha la….

I can take a box of macaroni, painstakingly read the directions fifteen times, make sure my measurements on the half stick of butter and third cup of milk are exact and still end up with something that makes my kids say, “Dad makes this better.” Really?

Is cooking well something that is simply in your genes? If so–I am one chromosome short.